


Alone

by Zhie



Series: Seamstress Remix [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Míriel contemplates as she weaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zopyrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zopyrus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Seamstress](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/48023) by Zopyrus. 



> This was a delightful project to work on. All of the stories I had to choose from were lovely and it was a hard decision to narrow it to three to dissect, let alone one to actually use. Thank you for letting me play in your sandbox, Zopyrus.
> 
> I took a bit more liberty with this because of my own thoughts on the questions of what is Mandos like and where was Míriel in relation to everyone else in Valinor. Additionally, trying to do it straight from the original wasn't getting me to the 1K cut-off -- but I'm happier with it this way, and I'll just go with being stubborn about it in the spirit of the story.
> 
> The challenge being, to remix it in a way I'd write it, 90% of my fics are Bunniverse, and, so, this is, too.

“It looks wonderful, mother.”

“Hmm.” Míriel’s fingers continued to work the thread, a rich, earthy green from the nettle she used to dye it. Her movements were too quick for her son to keep up with, her hand like a hummingbird as it flicked to and fro from the fabric, so he concentrated upon the images that appeared instead, or at times upon his mother’s face. Audiences never bothered her, but she was still, even after so many years spent with Fëanáro in her workspace, unused to the commentary as she worked. She would never say so; it seemed she owed something of a debt to her son, and if it could be repaid by letting him speak and interrupt her thoughts, so be it.

They had not always been alone as they were now. When Curufinwë arrived with Tyelkormo and Carnistir trailing behind, the trio had stayed with them for a time. Curufinwë was happy enough just to be in the presence of his father; Tyelkormo was restless, and Carnistir was indifferent. One day Tyelkormo wandered, whether from boredom or something else, and Curufinwë soon followed. Carnistir stayed only briefly after that; without a word, he, too, simply left.

Some reunions were not as enjoyable. When Pityafinwë found them, he had focused his ire at his father with utter contempt for longer than Fëanáro would have liked, or even felt he deserved, and then disappeared without any further communication. 

Not all of his visitors were his sons. Ñolofinwë sought him out once, looking to gain acceptance for his feat of bravery against Morgoth. It was a reunion only slightly less awkward than the experience with Pityafinwë. Sometimes Turukáno would appear, but it was only to look for Findekáno, who joined them more often than anyone else. Findekáno said little when he visited and would observe the creation of the tapestries with as much interest as Fëanáro. On the day that Maitimo disappeared from the works of Míriel, Findekáno stopped coming. Maitimo either never sought out his father, or simply had not found him yet. Fëanáro had himself convinced it was the latter, and Míriel kept her beliefs on the matter to herself.

In other parts of Mandos, the colors of the tapestries that were displayed seemed to glow in the darkness or ripple like water as someone passed. Míriel would have none of it in her work. Beside her was a table where she kept her supplies neatly organized, from the already dyed threads ready for use to the stores of woad, yarrow, and other plants and roots she kept for later.

Had she wanted, she would have been supplied by Vairë herself, but Míriel was adamant that her work be representative of her own culture. She chose sappenwood and madder over the wonders and magic of the threads Vairë wove with. “This is my art,” she would remind the Valië each time something was offered. “These are the stories of my family. The sea is blue, the sun is red, and the truth can be made no clearer.”

The freedom to return to Tirion was hers since her re-embodiment, but she preferred the solitude of her chamber here in Mandos to the bustle of a city where all eyes would be upon her. There were times when she missed the crafting halls, where critics and admirers alike would praise her worst works and ignore her inventiveness. This often lit the fire of her soul and only made her work harder to gain their approval, though she learned eventually that their endorsement meant nothing compared to her own convictions. Still, it was hard to make art alone. Fëanáro was there; he was always there, but his delicate craft could not be realized with needle and thread, nor could tinker’s tools be used by fëa alone. He could admire, and appreciate, but he could never fully understand the way another weaver would.

Following Finwë’s death, Míriel had many tapestries to weave. Her task was nearly constant as she recorded the deeds, both heroic and destructive, of her husband’s brood and their children, and the children after them. That was how it started. In the beginning, they were numerous, and traveled to many lands, places she had once traversed in her first life, but now with names unfamiliar – or names too plentiful, she had once scolded to the threads as she gazed upon a city hidden in the mountains. 

Now, the stories were too few. She had the time to perfect the images, and most of her work focused on the few of Arafinwë’s line who had survived and flourished. A city of trees and another hidden in a valley of waterfalls provided her with tomorrow’s histories. One subject, mostly unrelated, was still her favorite.

“Is that Macalaurë?”

“If you need ask, I must be losing my touch.” Míriel concentrated on the little harp held by the figure, hands plucking the strings despite the pain she knew he felt with every note. He was no more a quitter than she, she noted to herself.

“What is he doing, mother?” Fëanáro was closer, and Míriel tucked the needle into a fold of fabric before she invited him to sit upon her knee. He did not hesitate; the time in waiting had been the time sought to make up for time lost. “Where is he now?”

“He is singing, just as he always is, though where he is I cannot say.” She put an arm around her son to comfort him, though there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to hug. His ability to somehow give himself a more physical appearance than the others in waiting almost made her forget now and then that he was still dead, nothing more than a spirit in the shadows.

“Maybe he will come home someday,” offered Fëanáro. “Maybe he will even visit us here.”

“Perhaps.” Míriel’s comment was for the benefit of her son alone, for while she once had hopes of meeting her grandson, all chance of that seemed unlikely now. The story of his life seemed over; it was now little more than the repetition of the same notes, lamented nonstop until the end of the world. Even so, she would never stop weaving him into the record of time.

She hoped that he would never stop singing the song of the woman with the slash of silver between her fingers.


End file.
